Confessions and Epiphanies of a Gay, Black Wizard
by calliopeinbloom
Summary: Dean Thomas' Hogwarts career and beyond through the twin lenses of race and sexuality.
1. Chapter One

**Title:** Confessions and Epiphanies of a Gay, Black Wizard.  
><strong>Author: <strong>calliopeinbloom  
><strong>Part [if a series]:<strong> One-shot, but ridiculously long, so you've been warned (~18,400 words)  
><strong>Other pairingscharacters: **Dean/Ginny, Ron/Hermione, Harry/Ginny, Seamus/Blaise_  
><em>**Rating: **NC-17, methinks.  
><strong>Fair <strong>**Warnings: **Het, fair bit of language, non-chronological timeline and angst.

**Summary:** Dean's Hogwarts career and beyond, as seen through the twin lenses of race and sexuality.  
><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>Wait, this story isn't canon? No, I don't own them.

**Author's Notes: **I was thinking about writing a really comprehensive essay on race and sexuality in _Harry Potter_, but then I realised how hard it would be to write a full-length paper on a handful of minor characters and one old man who likes knitting patterns, so this story was born. Also, it's my first fanfic, so thorough and honest concrit would be much appreciated :) My eternal gratitude goes to swissmarg (on LJ) for her amazing and incredibly comprehensive beta skills. All mistakes are mine. 

* * *

><p>Sometime around the end of fifth year, Dean Thomas came to the conclusion that it was perfectly all right to stare at Seamus Finnigan because Seamus was original and as an artist, Dean was drawn to originality like a moth to a flame; it was his lifeblood. So it was all Seamus' fault, if you thought it through rationally. Seamus insisted on telling the most mundane stories in a way that could make you listen despite yourself. He also wore smudged eyeliner and chipped, sparkly nail polish and a long, sandy-blond fringe that refused to stay out of his eyes as if he were the first boy to ever be a little androgynous and a little... how to put it?... <em>sexually flexible<em>. Sometimes, Dean really, _really _wanted to be angry at him because honestly, the staring thing had been fun at first and incredibly rewarding in terms of the ridiculous amount of time he'd spent sketching the stupid boy, but now his essays were piling up and he was barely sleeping. But then Seamus would catch his eye and grin at him as if he was the most fantastic thing in the world, and Dean would be drawn into the contrast between his pearly teeth and rose-coloured lips, the way the sun caught his normally sandy, ashen blond hair and turned it to spun gold and the way happiness could make his eyes sparkle like jewels. Then Dean would mentally slap himself and wonder when and _how_ the fuck he'd turned into such a bloody girl.

* * *

><p>Dean was pretty sure he'd been straight at one point in his life. He seemed to remember a time in his early adolescence when just the thought of breasts could make him so hard that he would almost weep with the pain and the pleasure of it; discovering the joy of his right hand (and the left one, when the right got too tired) had been both a relief and an increase in the weird, new pressure that seemed to settle over the top of his skull like a humid summer afternoon each time he thought of something vaguely sexual. Third year was the first time Dean and Seamus ever had a conversation regarding the subject of girls.<p>

"Dean?"

"Mmmm?"

"You awake?"

"I am now."

Dean heard a low chuckle emerge from behind Seamus' curtains. "Don't pretend that you've been asleep all this time."

"How would you know?" Dean answered indignantly. "I could have been far into the Land of Nod, for all you know."

He heard a snort. "Dean." Seamus' voice was rich with a smile. "I've shared a dormitory with you for almost three years. I know what you sound like when you sleep."

Dean paused; he didn't know what to make of this. "I don't know whether to be flattered or incredibly disturbed," he said finally.

Seamus didn't answer with words; instead, he let his hand, ghost-white in the moonlight, float outside of his curtains with the middle finger up. Dean laughed.

"What do you want?" he asked.

Dean heard Seamus sigh. "Dean?"

"Yes?" He drew out the word's single vowel warily.

"What do you think about Lavender?"

Dean frowned up at his canopy. "What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I said. D'you think she's nice?"

"I suppose so," Dean said, shrugging even though he knew Seamus couldn't see him. "She's all right if you like that kind of thing."

"What kind of thing?" There was a rustle from Seamus' bed. The gap in the curtains became a proper divide, and Dean could see Seamus' sleep-tousled hair and his mismatched green pyjamas. He was sitting in a cross-legged position with his elbows in the crooks of his knees and his chin on his palms.

"You know." Dean adjusted himself to a reclining position on his elbows. "The girly, _pink_ thing," he added, not bothering to lower his voice; he could hear the little snuffles that meant Neville was dead to the world. There was complete silence from Harry and Ron's end; they were probably under the influence of the sleeping charms Flitwick had instructed them to practise the previous day.

Seamus said nothing; he only raised his eyebrows.

Dean rolled his eyes. "You _know,_" he said, annoyed. He was beginning to wish he could draw some kind of diagram or flowchart or even a foot-long essay to show exactly what he meant. Parchment and paper were much more forgiving than human ears. "She twitters on about hair potions and love spells and Celestina Warbeck, and while there's nothing wrong with that, she's just not really what I'd go for."

Seamus nodded thoughtfully. "Who would you go for?"

Dean thought and didn't actually know which name was going to pop out of his mouth until he heard himself saying: "Ginny Weasley."

Seamus threw his head back and crowed loudly, with complete disregard for the other sleeping boys. Luckily, none of them stirred. "_Ginny Weasley?_ Oh, ho, ho, Ron is going to _kill_ you!"

Dean sat up fiercely and scowled at him. "No, he won't, because there'll be nothing to kill me for, because _you're _not going to say anything."

Seamus snorted at his attempted threat. "Stand down, Thomas. Anyway, why her?"

Dean shrugged. "I don't know. She's good on a broom. And she likes my drawings. Like, really likes them."

Seamus shook his head. "Big head."

Dean lay back and got under his covers again. "It is the way of the artist," he sighed melodramatically.

Seamus laughed quietly. "Goodnight, Dean."

"G'night, Seamus," he said tiredly, already yawning.

* * *

><p>It was when he was in fourth year that Dean Thomas noticed – in a very quiet way – that he was one of very few black students at Hogwarts. For some reason, he felt a strange guilt that he hadn't been aware of this, that he hadn't taken more notice of what he felt was his blackness. He didn't even know why he felt so bad about it, he just did.<p>

He did a quick survey at breakfast the next day; at his table, there was himself, Lee Jordan and Angelina Johnson in the Weasley twins' year and Demelza Robbins in the year below (or was it two years?). Blaise Zabini was at the Slytherin table and in his year and a few taller black girls and boys he assumed were in the years above. The same applied to the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw: none in his year, but a few in the years above. And if he widened his criteria to ethnic minorities in general, there was Parvati Patil in Gryffindor and her twin sister, Padma in Ravenclaw, who were both Indian, and Cho Chang in Ravenclaw was Chinese. He chewed his toast ruminatively.

"Hello, Earth to Dean. What's up?" Seamus was shaking him gently.

"Hmm? Oh, nothing, just..." He made a vague hand gesture against his head and went back to his breakfast, still considering his odd epiphany of sorts.

He thought about it all day, turning over this new and yet not at all new information in his mind, wondering why the hell it was suddenly so important to him after all these years. It wasn't until he got to History of Magic in his fifth period that the Great Lightning Bolt of Why hit him. Binns was wittering on about the Goblin Rebellion of 1785 or whatever, when he said in response to Hermione's question: "This was because the wizarding race was under severe threat from the new forms of magic the goblins had created..."

He realised that the concept of race was different in the wizarding world; it meant something completely different to what it meant in the Muggle world because of the whole 'pureblood/Muggle-born' fight. The surprise and realisation and confusion must have shown on his face, because Seamus nudged him and poked him with a finger that ended in a perfect, suspiciously glossy fingernail.

"Dean, you're going to tell me what the hell is up with you. I've got some Firewhiskey under my bed. 'Kay?"

Dean snorted under his breath. Seamus and Firewhiskey. _This should be interesting,_ he thought to himself.

* * *

><p>Dean was in Seamus' bed with him, two large bottles of Firewhiskey and an obscenely varied selection of Honeydukes' finest produce sitting between them. They were already halfway through the sweets and a quarter of the way through the Firewhiskey (it had been Dean's idea to line their stomachs first). For all his bluster and his desperation to live up to the stereotype that the Irish could drink the rest of the world under the table and thus save the face of 'his people', as he termed his countrymen, Seamus couldn't hold his alcohol for shit. About two months ago at the Yule Ball, the two of them had managed to shake off their respective dates and lift some contraband alcohol – it was a weird, pink colour and it was sparkly, but it was alcohol – and Seamus had ended up getting completely smashed on two glasses, something Dean had not stopped taking the piss out of him for.<p>

They ate and drank in silence until Seamus said: "So, you gonna tell me what's been biting you all day?"

Dean sighed. He was drunk enough for this; it had loosened his tongue. And after another glass or two, Seamus would be drunk enough to forget this. And you know, out of the fullness of the heart, the mouth speaketh and whatnot.

"Seamus, do you think of me as black?"

Seamus squinted and his whole body seemed to move with it. "What d'you mean?"

"Do you think of me as black?" Dean repeated his question; his throat suddenly became very dry and he reached for the Firewhiskey, taking a long slug.

"Well, yeah... I mean, you _are_ black," he said slowly, as if Dean was a very stupid child. Dean rolled his eyes in annoyance and felt them continue to move in his skull of their own accord, like marbles; maybe he was more of a lightweight than he'd thought.

"I _know_ that," he said. "But is it... is it all you see when you look at me?"

Seamus snorted, collapsing into giggles. "No, not at all. Mostly I think that you're really fecking tall. Like, a giant. And that you're always silent around people you don't know or don't feel comfortable with. Oh, and let's not forget the fact that you're a feckin' art genius who's gonna have owls chasing him constantly for portrait commissions when all you want to do is draw pictures of the people in Gryffindor. I mean, yeah, you're black, but it's not all I think about. When I think about your skin, mostly I wonder whether you ever get the feckin' awful farmer's tan I get every summer."

Dean was chewing down on a Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Bean when Seamus said that last part and ended up inadvertently biting down on his tongue; he could taste blood mixing with the sugary pumpkin flavour in his mouth in the strangest way. He took another deep swallow from the bottle and then ate two Chocolate Frogs in quick succession; he'd heal it later. In the state he was in now, he'd probably end up Vanishing his teeth.

"Farmer's tan?" he asked stupidly.

Seamus nodded sedately. "Yeah. Your face always gets a little darker in the summer months, but I've never been able to work out whether it looks really different to your torso."

Dean tried to work out something in his mind. "But you always walk around naked! How could _you_ get a farmer's tan?"

Seamus looked at him askance. "Not _outside_." He sat up, face flushed and uniform askew as if he'd fallen asleep. "But what's brought all this on?"

"I was just thinking about being black and at Hogwarts and I can't even remember why now." Dean swept his hand over his face and blinked, trying and failing to clear his head of the pleasant, cotton-wool feeling inside his skull. "You know Blaise Zabini's the only black boy in our year?"

"Mmm." For some reason, Seamus' face was flushed. He squirmed.

"What's the matter?" It was Dean's turn to ask that question.

Seamus shook his head. "It's nothing."

"Seamus, it obviously _is_ something. You're bright red and you're acting all... shifty."

"_Shifty_?"

Dean folded his arms. "Don't change the subject, Seamus."

Seamus took a Sugar Quill and started sucking, still not meeting Dean's eyes. "Blaise Zabini asked me to go with him to the next Hogsmeade weekend," he said finally.

Dean's eyes almost popped out of his head. "You turned him down?" he asked, almost as a statement as opposed to a question.

Seamus was quiet. "No. No, I didn't turn him down," he mumbled around his Quill.

"You said yes."

"Yes. I said yes."

Dean stared at him for a good minute. He was feeling an odd kind of nausea that _might_ have had something to do with the booze and the Acid Pops and the Chocolate Frogs and the Fizzing Whizbees and all the other mental-sounding sweets he had eaten, but _most likely_ had something more to do with the fact that there was something hot and sick-feeling swooping around in his stomach. The thought of Zabini talking to Seamus and holding hands with him and kissing, oh God, the thought of that was just too much because now there was a vice-like pressure on his temples and his lungs felt as if they were shrinking by a cubic centimetre per millisecond.

"Dean?" Seamus' voice was tiny.

He wasn't aware that he'd shut his eyes until he opened them. Seamus had the worried, contrite look normally reserved for their fairly rare post-argument make-up talks. "Yeah?"

"You're not... you're not angry, are you?"

"God, no. No, I could never... no. Seamus, it's not you, it's just..." He pursed his lips. "Couldn't you have found a nicer boy to go out with than that git Zabini?"

Seamus released a cackle that held a fair amount of relief, Dean realised. "Is that it?"

"God, Seamus, come here." He opened his arms, trying to ignore the swaying motion that followed. Seamus scrambled up into them and Dean was hit with his warmth and the lithe, small build of his body and the clean, powdery smell that Seamus' hair always gave off, one that reminded him of the scent of the tops of babies' heads. He nuzzled into Seamus' hair to get more of the smell, knowing he wouldn't mind.

"Thank you, Dean," Seamus mumbled from somewhere near his armpit.

It was only when he was rolling over in his own bed, trying not to move too fast lest he threw up, that he remembered that Blaise Zabini was a boy. And so was Seamus.

* * *

><p>Dean saw no reason to treat Seamus differently after his little revelation. There was nothing he could do; there was nothing he <em>wanted<em> to do about it. And actually, looking at things retrospectively, it made a lot of sense.

A few weeks after that found them in the Room Room with their fellow Gryffindors. Seamus was scribbling away at his Potions homework on a small, round table and Dean was procrastinating on a large-ish couch next to him by drawing a cartoon strip with Seamus as the fidgety, hyperactive superhero in multi-coloured inks, so maybe things had changed; normally, it was Dean shaking off a bored and irritable Seamus in order to finish off an essay.

A loud bang echoed through the Room and Dean looked up sharply to see Ron storming in through the portrait hole, an ugly, snarling look on his face. Trailing behind him were Harry and Hermione; Harry wore a similar expression, but Hermione just looked tired. "Leave it, you two. You _know _he's going to say it every day. You _know_ he isn't worth it. Just don't rise to the bait."

Ron turned to her, furious. "Hermione, he's a racist thug! How can you tell me to just 'leave it'?" He started pacing, the flush under his skin matching his hair, as it often did.

Hermione shook her head and sighed. "Maybe because he's done it for the past four years and he'll be doing it for the next three?"

Harry's brows contracted. He didn't say anything, but there was a mean, hard glint in his impossibly green eyes that said, 'Not if I have anything to do with it.' He put a comforting arm around Hermione's shoulders and she smiled at him wearily, both of them missing the angry, longing-laden look that Ron was throwing them. Dean's drawing hand twitched.

Hermione flapped her hands about her face and shook them both off. "It's fine, boys. _Really_," she added at her two best friends' disbelieving expressions. "I'm going to get a head start on my Arithmancy. You two would do well to do the same," she said sternly and sat herself down next to Dean without another word, taking out pieces of parchment and quills from her satchel until Harry and Ron realised there was no more talking to her unless they wanted to be told off, and drifted off to the comfiest place in front of the fireplace to ignore her advice and play chess. She looked at Dean and Seamus apologetically.

"Sorry about that. Malfoy said something in the corridor earlier and well, you know how Ron gets." She gave a brittle smile. "It's nothing for him to get worked up about, really."

Dean shook his head. "Don't worry about it, Hermione. But Ron's right, you know. Malfoy's a dickhead."

Hermione threw back her bushy head and laughed in a way Dean didn't often see her do. "Thanks, Dean," she said and settled back into her work. He looked over at the flurry of activity happening at the table near him; Seamus gave him a questioning look. Dean shrugged minutely and Seamus went back to his work.

They spent the next few hours at their respective activities, until the Room Room emptied and there were only a few older students dotted around the place, either studying or talking in low voices. Dean looked up from his parchment of doodles with a start, not knowing why until his eyes rested on Seamus. There had been no noise from his end for a while, the reason for this being that Seamus was stretched out over his work, fast asleep. His little snores were ruffling his overlong sandy fringe with each breath and he was leaning on the edge of a book in a way that made Dean wince; his shoulder was going to _kill_ him when he woke up. He stood up and moved Seamus gently so as not to wake him. After a moment's hesitation, he took off his own jumper and put it on top of a book as a makeshift pillow, on top of which he then arranged Seamus.

He sat back down, feeling warm and cosy. He was overcome with one of those urges to freeze the moment, not through drawing or photography even, but to physically freeze it and just be content and warm in this place in time. He snuggled back into the couch, letting his eyes drift. A rustling to his right side told him that Hermione had woken up.

She was sorting and folding pieces of parchment in a sort of terrified frenzy. Her eyes were wide and there were ink-stains all over her fingers. "Dean, why didn't you wake me? I only wanted to take a ten-minute break!"

Dean felt his eyebrows float up of their own accord. "Hermione," he started in what he hoped was his sensible voice. "You had been studying for seven and a half hours straight when you fell asleep. I would know, I _counted_. If anyone deserves a break, it's you."

Hermione shook her head frantically and pressed her lips together, sorting her books into tidy piles. Dean had to admit, he was both grudgingly impressed and a little horrified. He knew Hermione was _clever_, but he'd had no idea that she was so focussed and driven. When Dean said that she'd been studying for seven and a half hours without a break, he wasn't exaggerating. She'd barely been touched by the fun, jovial atmosphere of the Gryffindor Room Room at its loudest, but instead had been buried in her books and notes all evening.

"I can't fail," she said, her voice shaking. "There's a test in Herbology next week and we still have that essay due on the hallucinatory effects of aconite when mixed with plants from the _Michaelmas_ family."

"Hermione..." Dean started, tentatively putting a hand on her shoulder as she stood to go to the girls' dormitories. "You do know that both of those assignments are in for next week?"

"I can't fail," she repeated in a whisper.

Dean's eyes were manga-wide. "Hermione," he repeated, his voice low with shock. "When have you ever _failed _at _anything_?"

At these words, Hermione dropped the books and notes in her arms and burst into tears, not the attention-seeking kind that fizzled out after a few seconds, but noisy, painful sobs that came from an anguish that was buried in some deep and horribly dark corner within. Automatically, Dean slid his arms around her and pulled her into his front. She was small, her head not even reaching his shoulders, so her frame fit into his perfectly. He rubbed her back soothingly and patted her head, muttering nonsense words and noises to calm her down. _Never let it be said that an emotionally volatile younger sister wasn't good for anything,_ Dean thought to himself with grim amusement, a mental image of Sabina floating in his head.

Eventually, Hermione calmed down and she seemed to come to her senses, because she tried to pull away from him and collect her things. Dean didn't let her escape, though. Instead, he pulled her down onto the couch with him, a heavy arm still slung around her shoulders. She was tense for a moment, then snuggled into his shoulder. He ran a hand over her hair to comfort her.

"I know we're not particularly close, Hermione," he said. "But I can't in good conscience let you go to bed after _that_. Those were the cries of someone who needs help. And if you don't want it from me, I want you to promise that you'll talk to someone else."

She was silent, and Dean panicked that he'd been too patronising, too overbearing, so he almost didn't hear her when she asked a question very, very quietly.

"Am I inadequate, Dean?"

He pulled back to get a good look at her tear-stained face and frowned. The chalk-tracks and blotches and wild hair made her look so much younger than she was, yet Dean's eye was trained to see things that others didn't and at that moment, he could see the child Hermione had been and the woman she was going to be. She was going to kick arse – Ron's, house-elf owners', the Minister's – and she was going to be strong and incredible and wise and that keen, almost intimidating intelligence would never dim, and it made him ache that someone as strong as Hermione was doubting herself, even for a second.

"You couldn't be inadequate if you tried, Hermione," he said fervently. "You are so intelligent and brave and beautiful and – listen to me!" He held her face because she'd started to pull away from him on the word 'beautiful'. "You are, Hermione!"

"Then why isn't it enough?" Her voice broke halfway through her question.

"Enough for who?"

"For everyone!" Her tears started in earnest again. "It'll never be enough that I'm Hermione Granger who knows the answer to every question on every test ever written because I'll always be that... that buck-toothed Mudblood!"

Dean didn't know what to say. Oddly enough, of all the things he could be feeling, he was _upset_. Not upset _for_ her, not really. He was genuinely and... and _separately _upset that she was feeling this about herself. But he didn't have the words to make her feel better; he didn't even really know if there _were _any, so he threw caution to the wind and went with his instincts.

Her mouth was warm and dry and surprised against his and when he pulled away, his cheeks were wet with her tears. She was wearing a look of blank shock, one that didn't change even as he used the cuff of his shirt to wipe her face dry.

"Please, _please_ don't think about yourself that way. _Please_. Malfoy's a racist fuck, and so are the rest of his cronies. Most of them don't even deserve that title because they don't even believe the shit their parents spout. They're only cowards who are just jealous and pissed off that a girl who spent her entire childhood unaware of her magic has not only caught up, but has done better than they could ever have dreamed of.

"And there's absolutely nothing wrong with having Muggle heritage. I mean, look at what you're doing with S.P.E.W. How many witches and wizards even _thought_ of giving elves rights before you came along? You're... you're bringing the best of both worlds together. You're a force to be reckoned with, Hermione Granger. Honestly."

"You really think so?" Her small face was hopeful.

"I know so."

Her eyes threatened wetness again, but she was smiling this time. "Thank you, Dean."

He leaned in and kissed her forehead. "No problem." He pulled her into his side and held her hand in his.

When Dean woke up, there was a crick in his neck and a warm weight on his chest; looking down, he saw Hermione's head of very full hair, hair that resembled the mane of their House symbol. The image made him smile. With a few awkward contortions and twists and one near-miss, he was out from underneath Hermione. He gently arranged her on the couch so she would wake up comfortable, taking off her shoes and tie and arranging her things neatly.

He stretched, wincing a little at the pop of his bones, and yawned widely. It was then that he realised Seamus wasn't there, and nor were his things; only Dean's jumper remained on the table, folded neatly. Smiling to himself, Dean shook it out and was about to spread it over Hermione when he realised what would happen if Ron came downstairs to find the jumper of a male, fellow Gryffindor draped intimately across the body of the girl he was madly in love with, even if he didn't know it yet. He got the cloak he'd draped over the back of the couch and tucked Hermione in. Now it would just look as if she'd grabbed the nearest warm fabric and crawled underneath it.

Dean gathered his own things and headed to the boys' dormitory, dumping his things quietly next to his trunk when he got in and changing into a pair of pyjama bottoms. When he straightened up, he noticed that Seamus' bed was empty. There was only one other place he could be right now. Dean looked down at himself. Oh, well. If Seamus was uncomfortable with his bare chest, he could bloody well lump it. Annoying git.

He got into bed, taking some of the quilts from The Great Covers Stealer none too gently. But Seamus wasn't asleep; he turned over and threw an arm over Dean. Seamus stared up at him with those great, glassy eyes of his, the pale colour looking eerie in the half-darkness.

"Dean?"

"Mmm?" He felt mean for thinking it, but he hoped that Seamus didn't want some kind of heart to heart; he'd already used up his empathy quota for the month and he was exhausted.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're feckin' amazin'?"

"Um. No."

Seamus rubbed his cold nose against Dean's shoulder and Dean squirmed. "Well, I am."

"Oh. Well, thank you."

Seamus' smile stretched against his skin. "You're most welcome," he replied, teasingly echoing Dean's formal tone. "Goodnight, Dean," he said, wrapping them both up in the quilt in an unprecedented act of bed-related generosity.

"Goodnight, Seamus."

* * *

><p>Dean felt that it was somehow wrong to go about normal life as if the talk he had with Hermione never happened. So he made a concerted effort to smile at her more in the corridors, and she always smiled back and waved, but Dean still felt this wasn't enough, so he got to work.<p>

He thought about doing a simple line drawing in a heavy pencil or India ink, or even using pastels, but they and all of his other ideas just weren't magnificent enough. Only one thing would do. He got out his oils from under his bed and brushed them off reverently. He gathered a few brushes and his art supplies bag, begged a scholarly-looking photo of Hermione from Creevey and found an empty classroom in one of the many forgotten wings of the castle.

He set up an easel and canvas, mixed his colours with much more care than usual, and began to paint.

However many hours later, Dean was done. He was exhausted (he always forgot how weirdly physical painting could be), but he was done. He didn't usually blow his own trumpet, but this was brilliant. He didn't see any way that this gift would be badly received. Waving a quick drying spell over the painting, even though he usually hated using magic on his drawings unless to animate them, he packed his things quickly and ran to the library, wincing a little at the noise his feet made on the flagstones. It was dark and silent in the corridors and Dean had the nasty feeling that he was out after curfew; he kept expecting to see the red, glowing eyes of Mrs Norris around each corner or hear something to herald the disastrous arrival of Peeves.

He finally made it, a little out of breath from his fast pace. He tiptoed around, peering behind and around bookshelves and sure enough, he found Hermione at a window-seat, twirling a quill in her fingers as she considered a question.

"Hermione?"

She jumped and clutched her chest. "Oh God, Dean! You scared me."

He chuckled. "Sorry. Anyway, I... um. After, you know, the other day I wanted to give you something, you know, something to cheer you up, so... here." He handed her the canvas carefully and decided to let the work speak for itself. She took it cautiously, as if she were afraid of being bitten by it.

She looked at it for so long without speaking that Dean was sure he had offended her. He was just wondering how much trouble he would get into for Obliviating her, when:

"You've made me pretty." She said it baldly.

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Hermione, beauty needs no embellishment. You look exactly like that; the painting is you. She's just you a decade or so later."

Hermione frowned. "But I'm not going to look like this in ten years."

Dean laughed. "I could actually put money on you looking like this in ten years' time. Honestly. When you're twenty-five, owl me a photo of yourself and see if I'm right. Which I will be." He came round to stand by her shoulder. "Are you really telling me that you won't be working on elves' rights when you're an adult and Harry's kicked Voldemort's arse?" He pointed to all of the tiny features in the painting that were labelled S.P.E.W or signalled an association with it. Hermione blushed and smiled. He talked her through it, explaining his idea and the objects and the place in the painting. When he fell silent, she nodded and looked up at him, blinking bright eyes.

"Thank you."

She didn't say any more, but Dean understood.


	2. Chapter Two

It wasn't until the summer holidays between his fifth and sixth year that Dean Thomas got another, rather more poetic answer to the race question that had pestered him on occasion ever since that History of Magic lesson.

Sabina – with her black lace dress, heavy eyeliner and the second ear piercing she'd managed to hide from their mum but not from Dean – was going through something of a Goth phase, which never ceased to amuse Dean; not just because she could hardly wear rice powder foundation, but also because she was subscribing to the cliché of the middle-class, suburban child with a world-weary ennui on her shoulders.

A little part of Dean agreed with her, though. London was in his lungs, in his veins; the rolling green hills and heavy mists of Hogsmeade could only hold him for so long. He liked the smells from the street-side vendors near the theatres, he liked the weird cobbled roads of Covent Garden and the ridiculously narrow alleys that usually led to nowhere but sometimes held treasure at their end. He liked the smell of exhaust fumes mixing with food scents, and the pigeons, and the fact that even when it felt like the place was a city-sized greenhouse, everyone would still carry an umbrella or a jacket 'just in case the weather changed'. He liked the way the Underground felt like an inverted version of London. He even enjoyed watching the tourists walking around the city, some of them bored and sweaty, but most of them pointing at things much like children in a sweet shop, their faces lit up with wonder and their mouths open. Dean showed them around whenever he could; it made him feel even prouder to be living here, to hail from this magnificent beast of a city.

"Come _on_, Dean!" Sabina shouted at him from across the bridge. Dean rolled his eyes and picked up his pace. They had just made it to Camden Lock; Sabina wanted to look at some more of the market stalls to see if she could pick up something interesting. Dean stuck his hands in his jeans pockets and rolled his shoulders backwards, sniffing appreciatively as they passed the food stalls. He was just wondering how they could make their way back so that they could pick up some food from here when he walked into Sabina's back. He poked her shoulder hard.

"What are you doing, Sabina? I thought you wanted..." He looked up at what had made his little sister stop and the words died in his throat. Three young men, almost as identical as the Weasley twins with their shaved heads, bovver boots and hostile expressions, were sitting on those little motorbike seats and sneering at his sister; Dean was forcibly reminded of the way Malfoy looked at Hermione in the corridors.

"Lie out too long in the sun, Morticia?" the shortest one shouted at her. His friends fell about laughing. A few people nearby looked at them nervously, but didn't seem too inclined to do anything. Dean felt Sabina shrivel and tense and expand all at the same time. Her arms wrapped themselves around her body defensively, but she drew herself to her full – and considerable – height and raised her head high.

"I'm so Goth I was born black," she replied casually, but Dean could see her fingers digging into her arm. "And you're a complete and utter fuckwit, so if you don't mind I'll be going now, in case you infect me with it." The nervous-looking bystanders smiled at her; a few even clapped. Sabina walked away at a brisk pace with a ramrod straight back, silently expecting Dean to follow, which he did. As Sabina browsed the silver jewellery stalls with shaking hands and a frown that inspired in Dean a feeling to go back and make that skinhead eat his own shredded testicles, a sudden thought popped into his head: in the Muggle world, you wore your difference on your skin for everyone to see. In the wizarding world, whatever made you an outsider lurked in your blood and your family tree, waiting to betray you.

* * *

><p>The December of sixth year found Dean in a relationship with Ginny Weasley; this particular night, they were taking advantage of an unused classroom somewhere frighteningly near to the Slytherins' pit. To tell the truth, Dean wasn't exactly sure how it had even happened, only that it was good. Brilliant, really. Ginny certainly lived up to her reputation as... well. Not a slag, because for all that people said that she was never without a boyfriend, she was actually pretty discerning. But she was someone who knew what she wanted and wasn't afraid to go for it, which was actually rather refreshing. Besides, the Hogwarts rumour mill was a pretty vicious one; they were a few hundred teenagers locked up in a castle on the Scottish moors, how else would it be? Ginny didn't care, though, which was one of the things he loved about her, along with the way she was slipping her tongue into his mouth...<p>

Dean had only ever gone out with or kissed two other girls before Ginny: Lisa Turpin from Ravenclaw and Parvati from his own house (he felt it wasn't very honest to include Hermione on this list as they had only ever been and only ever would be friends). Lisa had been too bookish for him, not in the warm, helpful way Hermione was, but in the uptight, stuffy manner Hermione _would_ have been had she not had Harry and Ron as best friends. She had wanted to spend all of their time together in the library or debating over obscure historical events, and whenever he moved in to kiss her or hold her hand, rather than respond or even brush him away, she simply let it happen as if it was something faintly repellent but necessary, like going to the dentist. Dean didn't enjoy being made to feel like some kind of predator for wanting to show her affection, so that had ended quickly.

Parvati had been perfect apart from two things. First, she didn't get on with Seamus, and on the whole, anyone who didn't pass muster with Seamus didn't pass muster with him. That had been strange; both of them liked and disliked most of the same things and both talked nineteen to the dozen about everything and nothing, but obviously, a fundamental something or other was missing and the two of them just didn't click. And the other (Dean still felt guilty for thinking it, but it was true) was a rather more... ahem, _private_ matter. He still winced just thinking about it.

Ginny sighed from on top of him and moved his hands underneath her jumper. He was surprised at the size of her breasts; they filled his hands and then some, which was saying something given his mutant fingers. Obviously, Hogwarts-issue cloaks hid much more than awkward boners. She kissed her way down his neck and hurriedly pulled both of their shirts off; Dean had no time to be surprised because she kissed him again, her hands moving up and down over his back. Her touch was that of a veteran and the warm skin-to-skin contact was lovely, like the heat of sunshine. The softness of her body was infinitely better than the cold hardness of the desk he was sitting on, and Dean shifted so that his arse wouldn't go numb and moved Ginny a little so that she was sitting directly on top of his hard-on. She moved her hips in a slinky parody of the rumba, knowing exactly what Dean wanted. Dean groaned at the friction and kissed the gap between her breasts, letting his tongue lave the skin there. She pushed his head into her chest, sighing his name like a prayer into his hair.

* * *

><p>When he arrived back in the Room Room, ahead of Ginny so as not to alert the Weasley brother who also happened to be his rather volatile roommate, the first thing Dean did was look around for Seamus. Not finding him there, he went up to the boys' dormitory.<p>

"Hello, stranger." Seamus' distinctive lilt came from somewhere behind his curtains, and a second later his head popped out. He was grinning widely. "So?"

Dean couldn't help but smile back. "So?" he asked innocently.

"What have you and young Ms Weasley been getting up to?"

Dean pulled his school uniform off and changed into a new pair of pyjama bottoms and a favourite but worn old jumper; the sometimes ridiculously cold conditions in the castle during winter didn't allow for Dean's usual night-time habit of only wearing pyjama bottoms to bed.

"I rather think, _Mr Finnigan_, that that is a matter between me and Ms Weasley."

Seamus narrowed his eyes at him. "Come on, Dean! Spill. We're best mates, I'm going through a dry spell and you're honour-bound to tell me. Besides, no one else is here. Ron and Harry are in the Room Room and Neville is... I don't know, seducing Devil's Snare by moonlight or something." Dean snorted. "It's just us two."

Dean looked at him again, properly this time. He was sitting cross-legged on the edge of his bed, leaning forward on the heels of his hands in anticipation. He hadn't noticed that Seamus had grown taller yet again; his limbs were longer and there was a gangly, newborn foal look to him that hadn't been there before. His hair was still long at the front and short at the back, but the hair that was usually gelled or spelled up in a quiff style was falling across the expansive sweep of his freckle-dusted cheekbone. And his eyes, as blue-green and as odd and as beautiful as ever, were staring up at him.

"Dean? Is something wrong?"

Dean snapped back to himself; Seamus must have noticed him staring. "Nothing's wrong." After a moment's hesitation, he rifled through his trunk, pulled out a huge bar of Honeydukes chocolate and said, "Budge up."

He got into Seamus' bed, ignoring the fact that they were probably far too old for this behaviour by now, and drew the curtains. Seamus looked at him askance as he put a huge piece of chocolate in his mouth.

"They're going to notice that we're in here together," Seamus noted around the chocolate. "Your curtains aren't drawn."

Dean shrugged. "Not something I'm particularly worried about. Are you?"

Seamus shook his head. They ate in companionable silence for a while, when Seamus asked: "How _is_ it going with you and Ginny, then?"

Dean looked at him, amused. "It's going okay. Why all this interest in my love life?"

Seamus shrugged, inspecting his fingernails. "I just feel as if we never tell each other stuff anymore. Or just do stuff together."

Dean felt a huge surge of guilt; he realised that it _had_ been a while since they'd done anything together, just the two of them. "God, Seamus I'm sorry, I didn't realise... I..." He didn't know what else to say, so fell silent.

Seamus shrugged. "No, I understand. I mean, Ginny's your girlfriend, but I don't want... I..." Seamus took a deep breath. "I miss us. You know? Getting pissed on a Friday afternoon, putting annoying shit in Ron's bed and watching him go crazy... even the creepy stare you give me when you draw me and think I haven't noticed," Seamus dug at him slyly.

Dean ducked his head behind a hand. "It's not a creepy stare!"

"You're like feckin' Magwitch when you get that glint in your eye."

Dean hit him. "I'm an artist! I have to see every detail."

"_I have to see every detail!_" Seamus imitated him with a pompous voice, earning him a whack with a pillow this time. "Bet that's what you tell all the girls. Or is it my arse you're chasing after? I always knew you had a thing for me, Thomas." He flicked his hair back. "It's the curse of the Irish. Insufferably charming and bloody irresistible."

Dean stared at him for an incredulous second, before cracking up. He couldn't even stop laughing when Seamus stopped flicking his hair as if he had a twitch in his neck and started looking offended. "Insufferably charming? More like always irritating!" he managed to gasp out between laughs. Seamus hit him.

"Well, if you're going to be like that, I'm taking the chocolate."

"It's my chocolate, you prick!"

"It's my bed."

Dean elbowed him hard and lay on his back under the covers, indicating for Seamus to do the same. A small voice in his head reflected that it was a just a little bit odd to be spending his Saturday night in bed with his _male_ best friend instead of the naked and comely arms of, you know, his _girlfriend_, but Dean silenced it. He wouldn't be without Seamus right now, not for anything.

Trying to be surreptitious, he shifted towards Seamus and took a deep breath. That innocent, almost talcum-powdery smell was still there. Some things never changed.

* * *

><p>It had been several hours and Dean Thomas was still trying not to cry. He was well on his way to hating this new life, a life with floating candles and an apparently invisible ceiling and stupid hats that sang stupid rhyming songs. He missed his mum and his step-dad. He even missed Sabina, even though she was annoying and always tried to help him with his drawings but only ended up ruining them.<p>

He didn't like the way that even familiar things were suddenly turned completely upside down; apparently, there was a whole new train platform at King's Cross that he hadn't even known about, even though he went there all the time with his family when his favourite uncle came into town. There was a heavy weight in his pocket where his wand was, unfamiliar and awkward. The fish he was eating (which had appeared out of nowhere and tasted nowhere near as good as it would have had it been cooked by his mum) stuck in his throat and he took of a sip of the not-actually-that-bad pumpkin juice.

"Cheer up! You look like you've been whacked on the nose with a rusty poker." He looked up to see where the thick Irish brogue was coming from and saw a cheerful boy sitting across from him with sandy hair that looked ruffled from exertion and eyes that couldn't decide whether they were sea blue or pale green. Dean stared, but didn't reply. The boy wasn't discouraged.

"What's your name?"

"Dean. Dean Thomas."

The boy laughed. "That sounds like two first names. My name's Seamus Finnigan. I'm Irish, as you can probably tell. You know I didn't know me mam was a witch? Nor did my da. I think she only told him when my letter came! Are your family wizards and witches?"

Dean shook his head mutely after this torrent of words.

Seamus nodded sagely. "Explains a lot. You look a bit dazed." He grinned and Dean felt his own mouth give a small answering smile.

"I am. I mean, one day that McGonagall lady just turned up on my doorstep. And then BAM. Hello, you're a wizard. Here's a wand and instructions on how to get to your new school." He poked his food around. "I'm not going to be able to do any of the work or anything. I don't _know_ anything."

"Rubbish," Seamus said firmly. "I'm guessing we'll start from the basics, anyway. And I don't think anyone has a real advantage. You see that girl with the huge hair and the teeth?" Seamus waved his fork vaguely to the left; Dean looked and saw the smartly dressed girl with the bossy voice he'd seen on the train. She was listening intently to something a boy with curly red hair was saying. "She's Muggle-born. She had no idea she was a witch until McGonagall turned up, and look at her now, babbling away with a Prefect about Transfiguration."

Dean still didn't say anything.

"Don't worry." Seamus frowned, leaning over the table and taking his hand casually. "Hey, when we get up to the dormitory, bagsie a bed next to mine, 'kay? I've got loads of sweets left over from the carriage. You look like you need them."

* * *

><p>Dean nodded and smiled.<p>

He knew he was in trouble when he heard voices approaching, but then Ginny put her leg between his and all rational thought flew out of the window.

"Ginny..."

She grinned into his mouth and pulled his head closer to hers. His hand was sliding slowly up to cup her breast when the voices suddenly became crystal clear and: 'OI!'

Ginny wrenched herself away from him in shock at the sound of her brother's voice, staring at Ron in horror. When she saw Harry was with him, a strange expression flitted over her face, an odd mixture of triumph and guilt. Harry was staring back at her as if he'd never seen her before. Dean recognised that look. His heart sank a little.

There was a tense silence hanging in the air, and Ron and Ginny looked fit to kill each other. Dean thought he should make a quick exit before curses were thrown about.

"See you, Ron, Harry..."

Ron didn't even acknowledge his existence, while Harry glared at him. Somewhat wounded and irritated, Dean returned the look with interest. He forced himself to walk all the way to Gryffindor Tower without breaking into a run and when he reached the boys' dormitories, he threw himself into his bed and lay on his back with a pillow over his face, waiting for the shit to hit the fan.

It only took Ron half an hour to come and find him after _that_ thing with Ginny; that wasn't even been enough time for Seamus to come and find him and talk him out of his worries.

"Dean?"

Dean lifted the pillow off his face and sat up to see Ron standing at the foot of his bed, hands shaking in what must have been a conscious attempt not to hit him _hard _in the face. Dean supposed he couldn't blame him; God only knew what he would do if he found some young idiot wrapped around Sabina.

"Dean, I know you're not the..._worst_ candidate for a brother-in-law... but Ginny's my _younger sister_," he said desperately. He scrubbed his face with a hand. "I need you to break up with her."

"No," Dean said immediately in a flat voice.

"Why not?" Ron exploded.

"Because Ginny's almost of age. She's fully capable of making her own decisions, and I don't think she'd like either of us deciding what's wrong and what's right for her like we're her parents." Dean shrugged and got up to face Ron. "As long as she wants to go out with me, we'll go out."

Ron made an angry face. "I'm not going to like it."

"No one's asking you to," Dean replied, wanting to laugh at Ron's over-protectiveness, which, while well-intentioned, was a bit over the top. He restrained himself. "Besides, if you spent less time running around after Ginny and trying to force her into a life of chastity, you'd have a better insight into what's going on in your own love life."

"What d'you mean by that?" Ron bristled. Anyone with a modicum of room sense knew that Ron felt very sensitive about his lack of success with women.

"Exactly what I said." Dean grinned, thinking of how everyone in Gryffindor knew that Ron and Hermione were completely in love with each other, yet the two of them continued to run circles around each other. He turned to leave for the Room Room when he heard:

"You're a sick bastard, you know that?"

Dean whipped around to face a blotchily red Ron, shaking even more than before, if it was possible.

"What?"

"Going around boasting about you and Hermione, when everyone knows how I–" He broke off here, and paused, an angry glint in his eye. Before Dean knew what was happening, Ron roared and leaped for him, getting a firm grip on his shoulders and tackling him down to the ground. Luckily, Dean was fast thanks not only to Quidditch, but to the football training he'd taken in the summer holidays; the only problem was that he and Ron were about matched in weight and height. Also, Ron probably had more experience rough-housing, thanks to his seventy million older brothers. Ron managed to get a lucky hook to Dean's mouth before Dean straddled Ron, pinning his arms to his sides with his legs.

"Ron, you're going to have to tell me what the fuck that was all about, because–"

"Don't fucking act as if you don't know!" Ron hissed violently, and this threw Dean. They weren't best friends, obviously, but Dean hadn't spent six years living with the boy without learning that when Ron got angry, _everyone_ knew about it. This spitting, quiet fury was something to which Dean was unaccustomed. "You fucking kissed her in Fourth Year! I waited for her to tell me or even Harry, but she didn't and neither did you! How could you fucking betray me like that?"

Dean stared down at him, this teenage boy driven crazy with longings and feelings that he wasn't mature enough to understand or deal with. "You," he said quietly, "are a fucking idiot, Ron Weasley." Ron started wriggling again to try and get out from underneath him, but Dean whacked his breastbone and he fell still, looking shocked.

"Yeah, I kissed her in Fourth Year, but it wasn't romantic, not that I should have to justify my actions to you. You do know Hermione doesn't belong to you? She's a woman, Ron. All too soon, someone else is going to come along and notice that. Other boys already have! Or have you forgotten Krum? McLaggen?" Ron fell still and quiet, staring up at Dean as if he'd grown another head.

"Hermione would give herself to you in an instant," Dean continued gently. "But she bosses you about in every other area of your life, she won't want to boss you around for this. This has to come from you, Ron. She isn't going to wait around for you forever, you know."

Sensing that Ron wasn't going to sock him another one – his lip throbbed painfully – he got up and made his way to the Room Room, where he found expectant eyes turned to him.

"What?" he asked into the silence.

"Mate," Seamus breathed. "Where's Ron?"

Dean frowned and jerked a thumb behind him. "The dorm. Why?"

"We didn't think you'd get out of there alive," marvelled Colin Creevey at his elbow, camera at the ready.

"Oh, I don't know," Hermione piped up from a rather more distant corner of the Room Room. She looked up from her books with a small, secret smile. "Dean has a way of making people see things differently. You'd be surprised."

Seamus tugged on his wrist. "Something tells me you have a tale to tell, and that it's a juicy one. Come on. Spill."

Dean looked at his friend, Seamus of the kohl-rimmed, aqua-jade-turquoise eyes and the undecided hair and the easy grin. Something shifted in him and he felt at peace with everything, despite the argument he'd just had with Ron. Things would get better. They always did.


	3. Chapter Three

Dean always attributed his new-found skill of procrastinating to Seamus. To be fair, NEWTs were still about two years away (a year and a half, if he was being honest with himself), so it wasn't as if he was wasting time, he was just... shifting his priorities a bit. He was sitting on his bed with the curtains drawn and his Transfiguration essay lying abandoned on his pillow. Deep in thought, he shifted yet another picture of Seamus into a different pile. He'd actually been looking for another piece of parchment when it struck him that his art pieces could do with a touch of organisation, which is why he could now be found staring at drawings and paintings and sketches, sorted into piles that probably had no real distinction to the outside observer; to be completely honest, even Dean wasn't sure how his system worked.

"Dean!" A sandy head popped through his curtains without warning, but Dean was unperturbed; being best friends with Seamus tended to increase one's tolerance for loud noises and explosions. "Whatcha doing?"

"Organising some art stuff. What are you doing?"

Seamus grinned evilly. "I came up here to bother you."

Dean rolled his eyes and continued with his sorting. With the utmost care, Seamus sat on Dean's bed without touching any of his pieces at all. It was only when Dean looked up properly that he noticed Seamus wasn't wearing a shirt. He raised a curious eyebrow.

"Seamus...?"

He shrugged one-shouldered. "I'm too hot."

"Seamus, it's December!"

"Exactly. All the fires are blazing and the house-elves have put Warming Charms on all the furniture. It's sweltering!" Seamus fanned himself with a hand. Dean gave him a serious look. Seamus walked around naked all the time, but Dean always averted his eyes because, you know, he was _naked_. But Seamus had his trousers on this time, so Dean was free to look at the newly hardened planes of Seamus' body, the shoulders that had broadened out ever so slightly, the longer arms, the faint freckles that always became more pronounced whenever the summer months rolled around...

"Dean?" Seamus whispered.

"Don't move," Dean replied just as quietly, and scrabbled around for the nearest parchment – his Transfiguration essay – and his pencils. This still, subdued Seamus deserved the sultriness and the shadows of pencils. For an age, there was no sound but their breathing and the hushed movement of Dean's pencils over the parchment. When he was done, he handed the drawing to Seamus without a word. Seamus stared at it silently for the longest time. When he looked up, his eyes were like jewelled planets in his face and his lips were parted. His tongue darted out to wet them unconsciously, the saliva there glistening under the dim light filtering in through the maroon curtains. Before Dean became aware of what he was doing, he had moved across the bed, sweeping his art out of the way with an expansive gesture. He cupped Seamus' face tenderly and closed his eyes at the onslaught of Seamus' smell, that perfect, innocent smell that never changed, however much Seamus did.

Dean..." Seamus breathed onto his skin. Dean pressed his mouth to Seamus', and he was undone. It was the chastest kiss Dean had ever had, yet with it, everything seemed to click into place; Seamus was his world, Seamus was all he had ever and would ever want or need. They weren't even moving and their noses were squashed, but it was perfection. But then Seamus' mouth bloomed like a flower over his and conscious thought flicked off like a light-bulb, and his only reference points came back to Seamus: the warmth of his cheeks under Dean's palms, the taste of his mouth, the butterfly-soft flutter of his lashes...

They moved back from each other at the same moment, chests heaving.

"Dean." Seamus' voice was quiet but firm, and Dean's name rolled off his lips like something holy.

"Seamus..." Dean shook his head and moved back so that there was more space between them. "I... I can't."

Seamus looked older than Dean had ever seen him. He nodded and looked away. There was an eternity of silence, and then Seamus moved off the bed like an old man. Before he disappeared completely, he stopped and turned to Dean with a scorching, intense expression and Dean almost gasped; it was rare to see Seamus so serious.

"Dean?"

He nodded mutely.

"I'll wait. However long it takes." With that, he disappeared, and Dean was left with nothing but his bruised lips and his beating heart to show that... whatever _that _was had even happened.

* * *

><p>"Stop staring at them, Dean." Neville chuckled into his Butterbeer, snapping Dean out of his reverie.<p>

"What?"

"You're staring at Zabini like an angry Hippogriff. I mean, I know he's a Slytherin, but he hasn't done anything too bad."

"Yet." Dean scowled, throwing another dark glance to where his best friend and that hideous Slytherin _git_ were sitting. He knew he was being uncharitable; after all, Dean could see better than anyone the relentless symmetry of his face, the sweeping elegance of his high, knife-sharp cheekbones and his stupid, girly, pouty mouth. But he was a Slytherin and he spent time with _Malfoy_ out of choice and on top of all this, he'd had the audacity to ask Seamus, _his_ best friend, out to Hogsmeade, so Dean felt he had every right to sit in a corner brooding like an irritating older brother. "He's a Slytherin, and you can't trust Slytherins. He might be fishing for secrets about Harry, so that he doesn't win the Triwizard Tournament."

Neville smiled again and looked at him speculatively over the top of his glass. "Why are you so bothered, anyway? I know Seamus is your best friend, but he can take care of himself rather well, from what I've seen."

Dean shrugged. "I've just got a bad feeling about him. You know?"

Neville was doing that weird stare again, a look that was not dissimilar to the one Dumbledore gave him on the incredibly rare occasions he'd had reason to be face to face with the man. It made him look a lot older and a lot wiser.

"It's not that I don't believe you," he started slowly. "But maybe you should think closely about _why_ you have a bad feeling about this."

Dean stared at him for a split second and then laughed softly. "Yes, Yoda," he said, and then laughed again when Neville looked completely lost.

* * *

><p>When Seamus crawled into Dean's bed that night, for the first time ever, he considered saying no, considered telling him to sod off and get back to his own four-poster, but Seamus was already wrapped around him by the time the idea occurred to him, and Dean could almost feel the down-turned corners of his mouth poking his skin. They lay silently for a long time.<p>

Dean?" Seamus whispered into the darkness; he never had been very good with silences.

"Yeah?"

"You're not still angry with me, are you?"

"I wasn't angry with you to begin with."

"Liar," Seamus retorted.

Dean sighed. Sometimes it annoyed him that Seamus could see right to the bones of him, but at other times (like right now, for instance), it saved a lot of beating around the bush.

"It's not all you, Seamus."

"But you're angry with me?" Seamus pushed.

Dean sighed again. "A little," he conceded.

There was a silence as Seamus considered. "Is it the... is it the gay thing?"

Dean gathered his arms around Seamus, hating that his best and closest friend thought, even for a second, that he was angry at him for something that was not only completely beyond his control, but was as natural as breathing.

"Seamus, it could never be that. I told before, I don't care about you being gay. It's who you've picked that I have a problem with."

"I didn't pick him."

Dean looked down at Seamus and waited for an answer; Seamus looked up at him with wide eyes and a tense, worried mouth.

"It's true," he said in a forceful whisper. "I didn't pick him, he picked me. And yeah, he might be a Slytherin and yeah, he counts Malfoy as a friend, but Dean..." Seamus looked as if he was about to either cry or hex something into flames. "He likes me. He _likes_ me. Can you give me the names of anyone else who feels that way about me?"

Dean was silent.

"I mean, yeah, I'm out in Gryffindor Tower, but this place is safe. It's home. Yeah, I wear nail varnish and flirt too heavily with the girls and yeah, I'm sure that people in other Houses know, but I'm scared. I'm scared to say it out loud. And do you know how feckin' hard it is to work out whether someone's gay or not? You ask a girl out, the worst she can do is say no. She won't want to beat the shit out of you for thinking that you fancied her." Dean could feel Seamus' hands curl into hard fists between their chests as he continued talking. "This is _easy_, Dean. I know that he likes me and that he's willing to hold my hand and kiss me. Who else is going to do that for me?"

"I'm sorry, Seamus... I didn't... I didn't know."

Seamus shrugged. "How could you?"

"You should have told me."

"Telling you wouldn't have changed anything."

"I could have helped you. You wouldn't have been so alone. And besides, you deserve so much more than the easy option."

Seamus lifted his head from Dean's shoulder and looked at him in the eye for an infinite second. "Thanks, Dean, but the easy option is kind of the only option for me right now. Probably forever, actually." He put his back and down and snuggled into Dean's body. Dean soon heard his breath taper off into a deep, even rhythm, leaving him alone with his thoughts and a confused, upset feeling that he didn't like in the slightest.

* * *

><p>"Seamus?"<p>

His best friend's doppelganger (Dean still hadn't ruled out Polyjuice Potion) smiled brilliantly and launched himself onto Dean, who had no choice but to catch him if he didn't want to fall on his arse.

"Who else, you eejit?" This new Seamus grinned up at him and punched him none too gently on the arm. Dean noticed that Seamus now didn't have to look up as far as he used to.

"Well, you look... different."

"Of course I do, you twit. It's been five weeks since you came over to mine. You haven't got the market covered on growing like a mutant Mandrake root, you know."

Dean made a tutting noise with his teeth and shoved Seamus' shoulder. "Let's go find a compartment before they all fill up."

Even the distractions of Exploding Snap, their traditional pre-Feast Extravaganza and Neville checking in to see them with an odd, unpleasantly pulsating plant in tow and a knowing glint in his eyes couldn't stop Dean staring. Seamus seemed to glow. He was so confident, it seemed to leak through his skin. Not that he hadn't been before, mind you, but Dean knew (and suspected he was the only one who did) that most of it had been bravado. This new Seamus was _new _and... it felt weird to say it, but he was _beautiful_. He was reminded of all those Greco-Roman sculptures of young men he'd seen in Tate Britain: tall, young and casually perfect. There was a new, greener (or it was bluer?) sparkle in his eyes, and his new, floppy fringe emphasised a bone structure that must have been lying in wait for this exact moment. His normally just visible lashes were darkened with something that made his eyes look debauched in a delicious way Dean couldn't put his finger on; he looked like some kind of libertine, the beautiful kind who was probably the inspiration for the eponymous hero of _The Picture of Dorian Gray_. When he reached out for yet another Chocolate Frog, Dean saw that sparkly-black varnish coated his elegantly-shaped fingernails.

"Dean?"

"Mmm?"

Seamus grinned widely, his teeth stained brown. "You all right?"

"Yeah, yeah." Dean smiled back, hoping that Seamus hadn't noticed him staring. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Good." Seamus nodded and sucked on a Liquorice Wand absentmindedly. Outside the carriage door, Dean saw Zacharias Smith actually _walk backwards_ to take another look at Seamus molesting his sweets. He knew that what made the sight so arresting – apart from The New and Improved Seamus Finnigan with Extra Glow – was that Seamus had no idea what he looked like. Dean scowled.

* * *

><p>It had been a week since Seamus had kissed him, and Dean still felt as if he'd been punched in the gut. He hadn't even spoken to the boy. It wasn't that they were avoiding each other per se, they just weren't speaking to each other very much. Or sitting next to each other in classes. Or taking meals with each other. Dean was sure that the other Gryffindors had noticed, because he kept getting sidelong glances from his housemates, and whenever Hermione looked at him, she got that tiny crease between her brows that meant she was either trying to work something out or was worried. Or both. Seamus, however, didn't seem to have changed at all, not on the surface anyway; he still flirted heavily with the girls and made the straight boys nervous, but Dean could see the sluggishness beneath his movements and the missing sparkle in his eyes.<p>

Dean looked at him across the room during Defence Against the Dark Arts, trying hard not to catch Snape's attention. He wasn't even fidgeting. It was unnerving. He was jolted out of his reveries by a sharp paper ball hitting his nape. He turned around to look at whoever had thrown it and found himself facing Malfoy and his sniggering cronies.

"You shirt-lifters had a lovers' tiff?" Malfoy said, the malice in his eyes making them shine like shards of ice. "Was he angry because you wouldn't let him top?" His Slytherin friends fell about laughing. Dean looked straight at him and wondered how Harry hadn't killed him out of irritation already.

"You must be running out of ideas if you're borrowing prejudice from the Muggle world," he said neutrally, and Malfoy's face fell. Dean fought a satisfied smirk and leaned over Malfoy's desk, ignoring Snape's angry "Thomas..." and knowing he'd pay for it later. "And anyway," he whispered with lethal intent. "Why does a _straight _boy like you know anything about topping?"

He'd obviously hit home, because Malfoy's face flushed pink and he blinked. Dean turned around, only to realise that he'd jumped out of the frying pan into the fire: Snape was leaning over his desk, an ugly snarl on his face.

"Ten points from Gryffindor," he said in a silky voice that belied the danger it indicated. "Consider yourself lucky that your Head of House stands in my way when I wish to give you harsher punishments. Students do _not_ ignore me in _my_ lesson when _I_ am talking to them." He turned around, his cape flowing behind him in the usual bat-like way, and resumed teaching. Dean looked over at Seamus out of pure habit and was met with two greeny-blue eyes glinting back at him.

He sat in his four-poster with the curtains drawn, knowing instinctively that Seamus would come and find him here. Sure enough, forty-five minutes into his attempt at an essay on Inter-Species Transfiguration, Seamus crawled into his bed without any preamble and sat before him cross-legged. Dean set aside his work and nervously put his fingers together in a steeple.

"Seamus..." he began, but Seamus put up a hand to stop him.

"Dean, I like you," he said baldly. "I've hidden it for years, because I thought you were straight, but when you kissed me the other day..." Seamus shook his head. "That wasn't the kiss of a straight man and frankly, I'm confused. You kissed me and then avoided me completely."

Dean scowled. "I did _not_ kiss you. _You _kissed _me_."

To his surprise, Seamus laughed. "Dean, I think I'd remember the minor details of the first kiss with the man I've loved for the past three years."

Dean stared. "That long?"

Seamus nodded, half-smiling.

"But what about you and Zabini, then?"

Seamus winced. "He was a... distraction. He was perfect, actually. But he's not you." At this point, Seamus sat up straight and took a deep breath. "I've wasted enough time. There's a war coming, Dean. I know it sounds stupid and melodramatic, but I don't want... I don't want to have to live with the regret of never telling that I... that I love you." Seamus blushed so hard that he was on course to rival Ron. "I love you."

This time, Dean was aware of every move he made. This time, he couldn't blame artistic stupor, or the fact that Seamus' lips were irresistible or a moment of madness. He knew he was kissing Seamus. He _wanted _to kiss Seamus. _This_ was why he stared at Seamus, why the faint freckles smattered across his skin were so interesting, why he didn't try _too_ hard to look away whenever Seamus got the urge to walk around starkers. Seamus' hand slid into his shirt and he gasped.

"Seamus..." Dean started breathlessly, and then kissed Seamus as if his mouth had some kind of gravitational pull he couldn't fight. When Seamus' hardness pressed into his, it took everything he had not to start rutting against Seamus' crotch, because God only knew that would happen if he allowed _that_. "Seamus, I have a girlfriend. Ginny," he added, as if reminding himself.

Seamus pressed his mouth against Dean's so, _so_ gently, making his lips tingle. "Do you want to kiss her as much as you want to kiss me right now?" he asked calmly.

"You know the answer to that, Seamus."

He nodded and stroked Dean's face. "I do. I just wanted to hear it."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "You'll always become before any girl, Seamus. Always."

"Really? Even before Ginny?"

Dean hesitated. He knew he couldn't give an honest answer to that question, not now. He tried not to notice the bitter tang of sadness that coated Seamus' tongue when Dean kissed him again.


	4. Chapter Four

Dean wasn't the world's biggest Quidditch fan by a long shot (it would never be the same as seeing West Ham play at home and besides, that was Ron's job) but he definitely enjoyed it: the breakneck speed the game was played at, the crazy rules and traditions and how it united everyone, sporty or not. Football fanatic that he was, Dean knew that watching men kick a ball around for ninety-odd minutes would only ever be an acquired taste for some, but even Hermione turned up to Quidditch games and roared with the best of them. And given Ravenclaw's reputation for scholarly introversion, it was an achievement in itself that they had a Quidditch team at all. Being invited to the Quidditch World Cup Final was not an opportunity Dean would not turn down, football fanatic or not.

"Dean! I've got some more of your clean underwear here. Are you sure you don't need any more pants?" his mother shouted from downstairs.

"I'll be fine, Mum!" he shouted back, rolling his eyes affectionately at his mother's bellows-like voice; he was sure his neighbours knew everything about his family thanks to her. He reviewed his trunk mentally, and feeling content that he had everything with him, he shut it and kicked it into place beside his bed. He sprinted downstairs for breakfast.

Everyone was already assembled at the table when he got to the kitchen. "Good morning, Dean." His step-father greeted him with his usual morning sobriety.

"Morning, Dad." Dean sat down at his place and grabbed a piece of toast. "Sabina, can you pass me the orange juice, please?"

Instead of passing him the juice or even making fun of him before she gave it to him, Sabina glared at him. Without a word, she got up from the table and walked out of the kitchen; Dean could hear her precise, little steps all the way up to her bedroom. He looked to his parents. His mother was frowning at the ceiling.

"Dean," she began in a low voice, the dangerous one. "What have you done to your sister?"

Dean was genuinely confused. "I didn't do anything!"

"Don't raise your voice to your mother, Dean," his step-father said automatically. "I'm sure there's a reason for Sabina's behaviour, so just go up and talk to her." He took a sip of black and unsweetened coffee, the kind Dean had always hated. "After all, you won't get an opportunity to speak to her properly until the Christmas holidays if you don't resolve it now."

Dean blew out his cheeks in annoyance. He hated it when Sabina got all weepy.

* * *

><p>"Sabina?"<p>

"Go away!" He could hear sniffling through the door.

"Sabina, I can't say sorry if I don't know what I've done wrong." There was silence. He took this as a cue to come in and came in to see his younger sister crouched at the foot of her bed, with red-rimmed eyes.

"Sabina?"

She turned away from him slightly, but he ignored this and sat beside her anyway.

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong?"

She sniffed again. "You're going to laugh at me."

Dean put his hand on his heart. "I swear I won't."

She nodded and hunched in on herself. "You... you like Seamus more than me," she said finally.

"What?" Dean was so surprised that he almost laughed. Looking at Sabina's face, he was glad that he'd managed to restrain himself.

"You like him more than me. That's why you're going away today instead of the first of September and..." She struggled for a few more seconds, then gave up and sobbed with abandon. Dean slung an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close.

"Come here, you silly girl," he said with a mock-grouchy voice. "You're my _sister_. No-one comes before that, Sabina. No-one."

She sniffed loudly. "No-one?"

"Not even Seamus," he said firmly. "This year's only an exception because the Quidditch World Cup's being held in Britain and you know how huge that is. It would be just the same if the football World Cup came to Britain, except I'd be able to drag you along with me." He hugged her tightly and she wiped at her face, embarrassment settling over her.

"You promise you'll write to me?" she asked in a quiet voice.

He nodded. "Every day, if you want me to."

She looked up at him with a mischievous expression on her face. "Will you bring me back any goodies from the World Cup?"

Dean shoved his sister. "And here I was, thinking that you wanted me to write to you for the sheer pleasure of my sparkling wit!" he shouted in mock-annoyance.

Sabina snorted inelegantly. "If your wit was the best thing about you, you'd be in Ravenclaw."

Dean shoved her again, this time whacking her with a pillow for extra measure. He pretended to be offended, although he was secretly pleased that she remembered all of the trivial things he'd told her.

Unbeknownst to the two of them, their mother watched the siblings with heartbreaking softness in her eyes.

* * *

><p>It wasn't so much the fact that Ginny had kissed Harry that was bothering him. No, what was really getting under his skin was the way she hadn't even bothered to break up with him first before publicly humiliating him in front of his entire House. He glared at his canopy. He knew that he could hardly talk, what with the odd... <em>thing <em>he seemed to have going on with Seamus, but at least he'd had the decency to hide his indiscretions. No wonder everyone thought she was a slag.

_That was unfair, and you know it_, said his conscience, a voice that always sounded alarmingly like his mother. He sighed. The voice was right, though; it _was _unfair of him to say that. He knew, deep down, that he'd only been a distraction, a rung on the ladder to Harry, but it still stung. He thought briefly about the bottle of mead that he knew was under Seamus' bed, but decided against it. Drinking alone didn't just make him pathetic, it made him unhealthy. Plus, it was never really that fun getting drunk without Seamus' stupid songs and bawdy poems.

There was a rustling at his curtains and the very same person he'd been thinking of stuck his head into the self-contained chamber Dean had created. He wore a very wary expression, as if Dean were a wild animal about to pounce at any minute.

"Hey," he said softly.

"Hey yourself," Dean replied. "What brings you here?"

"Wanted to see if you're all right," Seamus said. "Even though I'm probably the last person you want to see." He was still standing with his head inside Dean's four-poster curtains and his body outside, which was weird for him; normally he just clambered in, Dean's comfort level be damned.

Dean frowned at him, puzzled. "Why?"

Seamus looked at him askance. "Because of the whole Ginny thing..."

Dean shook his head and, with quite a bit of faffing about, pulled Seamus onto his bed and wrapped himself around the slightly shorter boy's midsection. "You're not the last person I'd want to see," Dean murmured into Seamus' shoulder-blade. "And I'm almost over Ginny. I'm more offended than upset, really."

"Really?"

"Mmm. They can have each other." Dean reached forward slightly and held Seamus' hand. "I'm not fussed about either of them. It's just a matter of courtesy."

Seamus snorted and turned around to face Dean. "Yeah, like the courtesy we showed her when you blew me in the library."

Dean grinned at the memory. "Exactly, I blew you behind a bookshelf where all the obscure books that no-one except Hermione reads are kept. And on a Sunday evening, no less! I didn't suck you off in the middle of the room room after a Quidditch match with the whole House watching."

"Fair point."

Dean hummed his agreement and kissed Seamus' hand. They were silent until Seamus said:

"Dean... I don't want to push things, but... where do we go from here? I mean, I understand if you want some space or whatever, I get it, I mean, it's a big thing and all–" Seamus' panicky ramble was interrupted by Dean kissing him.

"Oh." was all Seamus said after they pulled away. Dean stared at him silently, wondering how he'd managed to be so oblivious for so long. He was about to say something when the curtains parted yet again and Harry poked his head though.

"Dean, I – oh, I'm sorry, I – what?" He paused, his face bright red. He opened his mouth a few times like a goldfish, but then took a deep breath. "I'm confused."

On seeing Dean's glare, he blushed even harder. "I'm sorry, I don't really have a right to question you, after... after that." Harry waved his hand in the general direction of the dormitory door.

Dean disentangled himself from Seamus to sit cross-legged on his bed. "No, you don't. Not at all."

Harry shook his head. "I'm really sorry about that, Dean. We weren't going behind your back or anything, but I've liked her for so long, so when she... I just couldn't..." Harry took a deep breath again. "But that's no excuse. So, I'm sorry."

Even without the scar and the 'Boy-Who-Lived' tag, Dean could see why people were drawn to Harry; in short, he was adorable. Throughout his ramble of an apology, Dean found it harder and harder to bear any anger towards him, if only because Harry genuinely looked as if it would cause him physical pain if Dean stayed angry with him. He sighed heavily. He really did wish he could hold a grudge properly.

Dean shrugged. "Don't worry about it," he said finally.

"What?" asked Harry in confusion.

Dean rolled his eyes. "I've seen the way you look at her, Harry. Just... just look after her, okay?"

Harry grinned and disappeared; Dean heard his footsteps fade away and door slam shut. He lay back on the bed with a whooshing noise. Seamus looked down at him.

"Sometimes, I think you're too kind," he said to Dean. Dean looked at him quizzically. "Then we have a fight," Seamus continued. "And I thank God that you're not the kind of person who knows how to let their feelings fester."

* * *

><p>He was somewhere in East London; he knew that much from endless Tube-hopping with his sister of a summer afternoon. He'd just left a random Muggle pub when he noticed someone vaguely familiar following him. He knew it wasn't someone from Hogwarts; this man was far too old for that. Perhaps Dean had seen him in Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade. <em>More likely Diagon Alley<em>, Dean thought. Hogsmeade was more like a university town than anything else. Dean twisted and turned in the bowels of Bethnal Green, but still this man was following him. He was shabby-looking and slightly underfed; Dean could see the hollows in his cheeks and felt his own stomach give a sympathetic rumble.

He walked faster; the man behind him did the same. Dean stopped to linger at the window of a bakery; he felt the man slow down and remain some distance behind him. He didn't know how long this cat-and-mouse game would go on for, and he was tired and cold and the night was dark and cold and he missed home like mad. All Dean wanted to do was find somewhere with half-decent meals and enough privacy that he could look at his sketches and photos of his loved ones. Sudden irritation flared through him.

He turned into a deserted street and span around so quickly that the strange man didn't even have time to look ashamed of himself, let alone walk in a different direction.

"I'm sorry, are you lost?" Dean asked as politely as he could.

"No, but you seem to be," the man replied. Dean suddenly realised he _had_ seen the strange man before; when Dean went to Diagon Alley to clear his Gringott's vault during the summer holidays (a small and uncharacteristic extravagance of his mother), this man had been part of some kind of gang. They hadn't done actually done anything other than stare balefully at people, but in the climate of fear that pervaded the wizarding world, staring balefully was enough.

Dean stared. "I'm not lost," he said slowly. "I've been trying to shake you off for the past hour and a half."

"Well." The man drew the vowel out. "If you'd stayed at Hogwarts, we wouldn't be in this situation now, would we?"

The blood in Dean's veins froze, and before he knew what he was doing, his wand was in his hand and he was throwing wordless curses and jinxes at the Snatcher. His DA lessons flooded back to him and images and dreams of Sabina and Seamus and, oh God, his mother and his step-dad and the father he never known swam behind his eyes, giving an edge to his hexes. Dean could feel his skin splitting and bruising in places where the impact from the stranger's spells hit.

The CRACK of Apparition sounded behind him and he cast a quick, wordless Shield Charm and turned around, throwing curses to shackle them, cut them, boil them...

They had become mere shapes through Dean's blood-and-sweat-blurred vision and in his desperation, he screamed, "INCENDIO!" A veritable dragon of fire shot from his wand and Dean heard screams of pain with a vague kind of satisfaction. He began to sprint for his life. He was alone with the thumping sound of his own footfall and the whisper of his breath in his lungs for a few minutes when he heard what sounded like the gang of Snatchers catching up with him. Not thinking anything except _get me away from them safely_, he Apparated into thin air.

When Dean came to, he wrapped up in something warm. He was lying on something soft and all of his limbs were heavy, in a pleasant way reminiscent of lazy Saturday mornings.

_If this is Heaven,_ he thought. _Please let it be July. Please let it be the summer holidays before my seventh year. Please let me see Seamus and Sabina and Mum and Dad and..._

"Ted, I think he's waking up!" An unfamiliar male voice called out to a man called Ted somewhere from Dean's left side. Dean didn't open his eyes for a few seconds; the disappointment overwhelmed him, and the force of his emotions surprised him. He breathed in deeply and opened his eyes. The light was warm and cosy-looking, and a man with serious eyes and light brown hair sat to his left.

Dean sat up and was immediately struck with a violent coughing fit. He threw up what felt like an ocean.

"Come on now, there we are," the serious-eyed man said soothingly. Dean felt him patting his back hard, and more water came out of his mouth; he didn't know where he was even keeping it. He took a deep breath, ignoring the way his whole throat felt like sandpaper.

"You swallowed a lot of water," the stranger continued. "But you should be all right once we cast a few healing spells on your throat and your lungs. What's your name?"

"Dean. Dean Thomas."

"Well, I'm Dirk Creswell," the man answered. He paused and scrutinised Dean's face intently. "I don't recognise you, though. You don't work at the Ministry, do you?"

Dean shook his head minutely. "No, I... erm, I'm kind of on the run. I should be in my seventh year at Hogwarts, but..." he trailed off, the dull ache that was always in his heart flaring into a sting at the name of his second home.

Dirk nodded seriously. "Ah, well. That makes sense. You a Muggle-born too?"

Dean shrugged. He wanted to lie down and sleep again, but that would be rude. "No, I don't actually know. My dad went missing a few months after I was born and I don't know whether he was a wizard or a Muggle or what, but..."

"But you felt it was better to be safe than sorry," Dirk finished for him. "You're a sensible boy, Dean."

"Thanks," Dean replied, exhaustion making him slur the single word slightly. Dirk pushed him gently until he was lying on his back.

"I think you need to get some more rest, Dean." Dirk pulled the blankets back over him. "I'll introduce you to the others when you're feeling more up to it."

* * *

><p>"Deeeean..."<p>

Their friendship might have only been months old, but Dean knew that whatever followed Seamus' pleading voice would either be annoying or uncomfortable. Or both. He looked up from his Charms homework.

Seamus sat at the little table with him and grinned, resting his chin on steepled fingers. Dean rolled his eyes.

"Out with it."

Seamus sighed. "I sort of told Hermione you'd make the banner for Harry's first match," he said in a very quick breath.

"No," said Dean flatly and went back to his work.

"Please, Dean! Your drawings are amazing!" Seamus pleaded. It was an old argument, one that had started when Dean had lent Seamus notes about Devil's Snare and had seen the little doodle of the plant in question engaged in a battle to the death with the Giant Squid inked into the corner of the parchment. Ever since, Seamus had been pestering him to set up shop in caricatures and so far, Dean had been steadfast in his refusal.

"I don't want to show them to anyone," Dean said through gritted teeth.

"Why not?"

Dean shrugged. "You wouldn't understand."

Seamus folded his arms. "So make me."

Dean sighed and silently cursed Seamus' doggedness. "I just... It's just that the serious drawings are private."

"So make this one a light-hearted one."

Dean put down his quill. "It's not that. It's just that drawings are like a diary for me. They're private."

Seamus gave him a sceptical look. "Okay, first of all, I'm not asking for a huge, moving portrait, all you have to do is draw a bloody lion. And second, if your drawings are so private, why do they keep appearing all over your essays, on your books, on desks?"

Dean stared at him, stumped.

"You're an artist, Dean. Artists need audiences. And besides, sometimes the best work we do is the work that feels like you've drawn blood out of a stone to produce."

Dean continued to stare at him.

"What?" Seamus asked, squirming with twitchy defensiveness.

"When did you get so... so wise?"

Seamus grinned. "I've always been this wise, Thomas. Glad that you've finally decided to get a clue."

* * *

><p>The silence between the Gryffindor boys was heavy as they packed their trunks. Not even the last day of their fourth year had been so grave; somehow, the death of their Headmaster, the brightest beacon of Light magic against the Dark, seemed a much more serious indicator of the grimness of the looming war than that of a seventeen-year-old boy. That wasn't to say that they hadn't grieved that year, because they had: for Cedric, for his family, for Harry and his loss of innocence, for the sheer waste of life before it had ever really truly blossomed. But this was different; it was blank shock and a bone-numbingly cold fear, it was uncertainty and confusion and yet more fear.<p>

Harry slammed his trunk shut with a final-sounding thud and swept out of the dormitory, Ron following him with an expression that made him look decades older than his seventeen years. Neville looked at Dean and Seamus, muttered something about greenhouses and followed Harry and Ron's example by leaving the room a few moments later.

Dean looked over at Seamus, who was slowly sorting out his Quidditch knick-knacks.

"Seamus," he said quietly. Seamus looked at him, still holding a small Gryffindor banner; Dean looked closer and saw that it was one he'd made himself.

"Mam's not gonna let me come back next year." Seamus almost seemed to be talking to himself. "It was hard enough convincing her to let me come back in our fifth year, and then I had to argue with her in front of the whole school to go to Dumbledore's funeral and now–" He broke off with a small whimper and shut his eyes, struggling to keep his composure. "I can't just stay in Ireland, Dean. I have to fight."

"You'd probably be safer here anyway. You're a half-blood, remember? And you'll have all the teachers taking care of things. McGonagall's Headmistress now, so it should be all right."

Seamus opened his eyes. They were wet and red-looking, but he didn't look as if he was going to break down. "Don't talk as if you're not coming back, Dean."

Dean looked out of the window, at the wall, at the packed trunks, at anything to avoid the accusation in Seamus' eyes. "I can't come back. You know I can't come back."

"Lie!" Seamus sounded desperate. "Tell them you're a half-blood, tell them you're adopted–"

"And what do I do if they go after my family?" Dean interrupted him, looking him straight in the eye. "What do I do when they find out that my step-dad has less magic in him than a Squib?"

Seamus deflated. "Please don't go, Dean," he whispered. "I need you."

Dean moved into his space and kissed him; it was a kiss that was equal parts desire, goodbyes and desperation. "I promise you, we'll be together after this fucking war is over, but right now I have to go underground. I don't know whether I'm Muggle-born or half-blood and until I do, the best thing is to go into hiding so that all of the people I love are safe. Do you really think I'd ever be able to forgive myself if anything happened to you on account of me?"

Seamus was crying in earnest now, but he didn't even seem to notice. "Dean..."

"I love you, Seamus," Dean said simply. "I've always loved you, I think. It just took me a little while longer to realise. You're smarter than me, that's why you knew before me."

Seamus laughed through his tears. "I've been telling you that for years, Thomas. Glad to see you've finally fucking seen sense."

Dean couldn't help but grin as well, even though the sadness in his heart was threatening to suffocate him.


	5. Chapter Five

If the beginning of fifth year marked how Dean couldn't stop staring at him, then spring of the same year marked the first argument that ever ran a real risk of ruining their friendship forever.

"I can't fuckin' believe you're running around with that twat," Seamus whispered viciously as Dean walked into the Gryffindor room room, a small contingent of his fellow DA-ers behind him.

Dean frowned. It was an old argument, and he knew that Seamus was more scared than angry what with the events of last year and his mum feeding him all that nonsense cobbled from _The Daily Prophet_ and the general air of confusion and worry that pervaded Hogwarts thanks to Umbridge, but it was no excuse. Seamus knew Harry; he had _lived_ with the boy for the better part of five years, for crying out loud.

"I'm not 'running around' with him. He's set up a Defence Against the Dark Arts club. If you want to defy Umbridge, you can join. If you want to be prepared for the shit that's going to hit the fan in the next year or so, you can join. If you just want to pass your OWL or NEWT, you can join."

"And you really believe his stupid story?" Seamus asked angrily, not bothering to lower his voice.

"Well, how else do you explain Cedric Diggory dying? How else do you explain the Ministry sticking their noses in when it comes to Hogwarts? How else do you explain that Harry looks like he's going to fucking fall apart at any minute?" Dean roared back. "I know your mum doesn't believe any of it, Seamus, but you're fifteen, for fuck's sake! You should be old enough to work this shit out for yourself! You're not a child anymore!"

He saw the stone-hard glint in Seamus' eyes and knew that it was a lost cause. He made a disgusted noise and stormed up to the dormitory, not bothering to shut the door quietly on his way in. 

* * *

><p>It took three weeks of hostile, awkward silences and sleeping alone. It took another week and a half of Dean hanging out with Neville and his Herbology friends and Seamus skulking around alone. It took a public apology to Harry. It took an awkward reconciliation and a chocolate binge and Seamus going to the DA meeting despite a bit of residual hostility between him and Harry, but eventually Dean and Seamus became friends again.<p>

"Can you... can you forgive me?" Seamus asked, standing by Dean's bed and wringing his hands.

"I don't know. Have you stopped being an idiot?" Dean asked bluntly.

Seamus seemed to think about it. "I think so."

Dean smiled despite himself. "I suppose we can spend some time together, then."

Seamus grinned. "Budge up, then," he said, and climbed into Dean's bed. 

* * *

><p>Seamus' mum had told them to go bed hours ago, but Dean and Seamus were in such high spirits that such a demand was almost impossible to fulfil.<p>

"Ireland's playing tomorrow!" Seamus whispered excitedly from somewhere around Dean's shoulder; the darkness in their tent made it hard to tell.

"I did guess that. I mean, there is an enchanted field of shamrocks outside," Dean replied dryly.

Seamus hit him lightly. "Stop being such a spoilsport. My _nation_ is playing in the Quidditch World Cup final tomorrow evening. I think that's worthy of a little repetition, thank you."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Drama queen."

Seamus sighed. "You have no sense of occasion. _Honestly_."

"I have plenty of 'sense of occasion'. It's in bed, like _we're _meant to be."

Seamus made a grumpy sound in his throat. "G'night, Thomas."

"Sleep tight, Finnegan." 

* * *

><p>His DA Galleon burning hot in his pocket, Dean climbed out of the secret passageway and into a room he'd never seen before; it looked like something out of <em>Treasure Island<em>, but decked in Hogwarts colours. Helping Luna out of the entrance and looking around, he saw lots of familiar faces: Harry, Ron and Hermione, Neville, Lavender, Terry Boot, Parvati, Padma and –

"Dean!" A familiar lilting voice called his name, but he couldn't place where it had come from. Then a skinny, battered boy waved at him and grinned with gappy teeth.

"Seamus?" Dean breathed and before he knew he was moving, he was standing in front of Seamus, stroking the ugly bruises and cuts that covered the skin that was now paler than ever. "Who did this to you?"

Seamus shook his head and shrugged. "It doesn't matter now," he whispered, taking Dean's hands. "You came back."

Dean smiled. "I couldn't stay away." He kissed Seamus tentatively, but stopped when he winced. "Let me do something about these, Seamus."

Seamus shook his head. "No, it's fine, I've managed–"

Dean interrupted Seamus by gently taking his wand out of his hand and silently casting healing spells over his bruises and cuts, one by one. There was a long scar on his lip that refused to heal whatever Dean did to it.

Seamus shook his head. "That one was caused by a curse. I think the scar's permanent."

"It suits you. Makes you look rugged. You'll be pushing the ladies away with a Bludger."

Seamus laughed, the sound strange in the terse silence that filled the room, punctuated by explosions and crashes that could be heard outside. "We can't have that, can we?" He looked down at the floor, frowning. "Dean, if something happens to either of us–"

"Then the pleasure, the privilege will have been all mine," Dean quoted. Seamus cocked his head in confusion. Dean shook his head. "It's a song." He opened his mouth to say more but found that he couldn't say anymore. It didn't seem to matter, though, because Seamus understood.

"Together?" he asked.

"Together," Dean replied firmly. 

* * *

><p>He'd known it was over even before he heard the dull thud of Voldemort's body hit the stone floor of the Great Hall. Dean watched the battle between Harry and Voldemort with some kind of sick fascination, the heat of their curses singeing some of the stubble on his face. And almost before it had even properly begun, it was over. The sun was rising, and there was birdsong in the shocked moment of silence, and suddenly a noise broke over the Hall like a wave hitting the shore and he was being swept over to Harry in the sheer multitude of people. He caught Harry's eye for a few seconds and smiled at him sadly. There had been too much loss and pain and sacrifice for outright jubilation.<p>

Harry grabbed his arm and held on tightly. "You remember in sixth year when you told me to look after Ginny?" he roared over the din. Dean frowned and nodded. Harry pulled him closer and whispered in his ear. "Do the same for Seamus." With a grin that made him look both less and more like the scrawny boy Dean had known in his first year at Hogwarts, he let go and disappeared into the crowd. Dean fought his way out and found Seamus. Without a word, the two of them joined hands and made their way out of the Great Hall.

As soon as they were standing in the seventh year Gryffindor boys' dormitory, Dean gave Seamus a kiss that left both of them breathless and dizzy with arousal. Dean could feel the spectre of the last time he'd embraced Seamus here pressing down on the both of them and he wanted to banish that memory and all of the fear and desperation that came with it.

"I want you," Seamus said between kisses. Dean pulled back to look at him properly; Seamus' pupils were so dilated that the blue-green was almost swallowed up completely. Dean felt as if he'd fall in if he looked too long. "All of you," Seamus continued, and pressed a palm to Dean's crotch to clarify his point. Dean gasped.

"I've waited too long, Dean," Seamus was babbling now. "You saw what happened down there, people are dead, they've gone and I don't want to die before having done this with you, I can't–"

Dean kissed him again to shut him up and, with trembling fingers, undid the buttons on Seamus' shirt and pulled the garment off. Seamus did the same for him and didn't stop there; Dean could feel his fingers trailing his spine, fumbling at his zipper and stroking his face, and the blur of sensation continued until they were both standing naked before each other. He could feel the blazing heat of Seamus' erection digging into his hip, and he had a sudden onslaught of nerves. What if Seamus hurt him? What if he hurt Seamus? They'd fooled around towards the end of their sixth year, yeah, but there had been no time for them to get really serious before Dumbledore died and the war started in earnest. He looked back into Seamus' eyes and felt tranquillity settle in his bones. It would be fine, more than fine. Things always were with Seamus.

He curled a sure, firm hand around Seamus' cock and was satisfied when he made a rumbling sound in his throat.

"Dean," Seamus whispered into his chest. "Let's do this in my bed." Seamus took him by the hand and Dean let go of his cock. They looked at each other uncertainly before they both leaned into another kiss and Seamus pushed them both down and straddled Dean. Seamus had been right to say they should move to the bed, because it felt different like this. More serious, somehow.

"I want you in me," Seamus muttered as he licked his earlobe and Dean froze. Seamus looked at him with what would have been a glare if his eyes weren't half-lidded with desire. "Don't look at me like that, Dean. I know you want this just as much as I do." Here, he grasped Dean's cock again and Dean couldn't stifle the groan that ripped out of him. "It's been so fucking long. And I've already said that I want you. Let me show you."

Dean nodded; he couldn't speak with Seamus doing that with his hand. Seamus got off suddenly and searched through the clothing they'd left on the floor. He straightened up with a flourish and brandished his wand. Placing himself back on Dean's lap, he murmured a few words to himself and Dean felt his cock covered in something wet and cool. _Lubricating Charm_, he thought dizzily. _Of course_. Seamus pulled Dean's hands to his crotch, lower and further back than that, until:

"Oh." The whisper hung between them as Dean's long forefinger made its way into Seamus. Seamus clenched and Dean was surprised at how erotic it was. He moved his finger experimentally and Seamus whimpered, actually _whimpered_.

"I've always loved your hands. They're so beautiful and graceful," Seamus murmured.

"Thank you," Dean said, not even noticing how surreal the conversation was. He slowly added another finger, watching Seamus as he did so.

"Yes, yes, yes..." Seamus muttered and bounced on his hand a little. He sighed and wriggled. "Add another finger."

Dean pushed a third finger into Seamus and moved them around, trying to find Seamus' 'sweet spot'. Given that he only knew the basic mechanics of gay sex, it could be complete and utter tosh for all he knew, but then Seamus gave a cry and gasped and said, "Do that again, Dean, _please_..."

Dean complied, stretching out his fingers and wriggling them and praying that what they were about to do wouldn't hurt Seamus too much. When Seamus looked down at him with dark, glistening eyes, he moved so that Seamus was on his back and Dean was holding all of his weight over Seamus on his elbow, the other hand still being somewhere up Seamus' arse. He took his fingers out and looked at Seamus in the eye.

"Are you ready?" he whispered.

Seamus smiled back at him. "I've been ready for years, Dean."

Dean nodded and pushed inside Seamus the tiniest bit. He watched carefully for Seamus' reaction, but he didn't seem to be in pain. He inched further and further into Seamus' ridiculously tight arse until halfway in, Seamus put a hand on his wrist and Dean stopped immediately, even though it felt like he was going to fall apart. Seamus was so tight and hot that it was incredibly hard to resist letting his hips slam into Seamus and doing what he would, but he wanted to make this good for Seamus as well. They stayed in that position for a very long time, until Seamus gave a minute nod and Dean moved forward, millimetre by millimetre, until he was fully sheathed in Seamus. Seamus clenched and Dean groaned.

"Fuck, Seamus," he said, the overwhelming sensation making him hang his head. Seamus forced Dean to look at him, then kissed him until his whole body ached with want even _more_, if that was possible. And then Seamus moved his hips up and Dean thrust out and back in slightly and their lovemaking began in earnest. The only noises came from the sound of skin slapping on skin and their puffy breaths into each others' mouths, punctuated by the occasional wet smack as they kissed.

Dean didn't know what happened to change the pace; Seamus must have moved, or maybe he thrust particularly hard, but suddenly, they were both gasping and Seamus' legs were wrapped around him with almost crushing force and Seamus' cock was trapped between their stomachs and they were both racing towards the same conclusion and when Dean came, it felt so good that he could have sworn he actually heard angels singing.

He let his arms give way and collapsed onto Seamus with a great 'Oof'. Seamus' arms slid around him and held tight and Dean felt a strong sense of rightness come over him. This was the way it was always meant to be; the taste of Seamus' salt-sweat on his lips, the quick thrum of his heartbeat in Dean's ear, the rhythmic slide of Seamus' hands on his back. Seamus comprised the whole of his universe, and he wouldn't have it any other way. Dean slowly slid out of Seamus and gathered up him up in his arms. Seamus kissed him hard on the mouth, on his neck, on his cheeks, every kiss dotted with an "I love you." They held each other fiercely, watching the dust of a brave and fear-free new world settle around them. Before he drifted into sleep, Dean searched around for Seamus' hand. Finding it, he smiled and squeezed.

Things would be fine. They always were with Seamus.


End file.
